The Lilac Time “Paradise Circus”

Staying in a cabin in the “North Woods”—no TV or internet—just 50 pounds of venison jerky, an old hi-fi, and a water-damaged box of records—they play fine. This one looks intriguing—never heard of The Lilac Time! Canadian? No. PolyGram, 1989. That singer sounds familiar! No band credits on the back cover, however—just egomaniac producer credits. The band could be any number if interchangeable Eighties Nineties competent pop combos—but who is that singer? I know I’ve heard him—maybe from another band? Moonlighting? Could it be… Robyn Hitchcock? After all, he was in the Soft Boys and the Egyptians—could The Lilac Time be another? Toning it down a little? No? Maybe that guy from Coldplay, but before Coldplay? No wait… I think it could be Mick Jagger. He did a lot of solo records—why not this one?—the codeword for “not with the Stones” is… Lilac Time. But that’s just crazy. Then it comes to me… Emeril Lagasse? I don’t even know who that is. The out-of-focus cover shows four guys, presumably in the band (and I’m making assumptions on the gender, based on posture as much as anything). It’s so out of focus that one is led to believe it was the photographer’s intention! The back cover lists song titles, producer credits, and an overlapping group of entirely uninspiring photos (it makes me think this record also came out on CD because this looks like the kind of random group of photos that made the entire history of the CD booklet not even worth preserving). I finally drive into town and pay some sketchy peckerwood $10 to use his internet. Not Hitchcock, but I knew that. Not even Alfred Hitchcock. Neither Jagger nor Lagasse. It’s some guy I never heard of, and I forgot to write it down! Musically, a bit of variety as well. The song “Paradise Circus” is an accordion instrumental—they’re stretching out! The next song has a “zydeco” influence and is pretty nice… for a bit, anyway. Guess what? The Lilac Time are still together! This was their second LP, and they’ve come out with ten more on nearly as many labels. And there are some nice pop songs popping out on this one, but some of these songs are lukewarm bummers, and it’s CD-era-endless.

4.25.25

Sarah Vaughan and the Count Basie Orchestra “Send In the Clowns”

I guess this 1981 record is pretty late in the careers of Sarah Vaughan and Count Basie—though it’s the Basie Orchestra, no Count Basie present—and Sarah Vaughan is more than present—this is some strong, full-of-personality singing, and the record sounds great. The big band is really big, overly big, loud and full—but I like that it’s a vinyl record, and is warm and present, and it doesn’t have that cleaned-up digital robot sound of contemporary big band stuff, like you hear in restaurants. (For me, 1980 forward is “contemporary.”) The Count Basie Orchestra apparently made appearances without him in attendance, and this is one—and they made records after his death (still going strong to this day). I wouldn’t presume to be able to judge Sarah Vaughan performances against each other, as I only have a handful of her records, but if there are ones that sound better than this (and the odds are likely, just because she has lots of records) those must be impressive indeed. By the way, I have another Sarah Vaughan record that is titled “Send In the Clowns”—it’s from 1974, and it’s a good record. She must have loved this song, and her dramatic interpretation here is as good a version of that song as I’ve heard. In spite of the C-word reference, it’s not one of my favorite songs. I always felt like it was around forever, but it’s from a Sondheim musical in 1973—after which everybody and their singing Aunt had to cover it. I do like the sentiment, but I find the song pretty cornball. I’m glad I like the version here. And I like all of the rest of the songs here—lots of the usual standards—all good stuff. My favorite is “If You Could See Me Now.” Great liner notes, by Dan Morgenstern—interesting and smart. And the cover is a nice photo of Sarah Vaughan in action—not as memorable as the clown photo on the other “Clowns” record, but that’s more or less, in this case, I don’t mind saying it, not an entirely bad thing.

4.18.25

Jackie and Roy – “Storyville Presents Jackie and Roy”

Originally (I think?) released as “Jackie Cain and Roy Kral,” this record is a re-release on Storyville records—so, I’m not sure about the year. Let’s just say 1955. Wait, there’s another record, exactly the same title, same year, same label, with a great (very different) cover, totally different songs and sidemen. What is going on? So… I guess this is one of their first LPs—well—if you can figure out their very early discography, based on your collection, memory, or online info—you’re a far better madman than I!

Anyway, I got this one! It’s old, sounds crystal-clear in the way only really old stuff sounds—before pop groups started gumming up the works with their bullshit. Everybody knows Jackie and Roy… except me—well, this is the first I heard of them. I bought it knowing nothing about them, and in spite of the gnarly album cover—a kind of mustard-gas tinted b&w photo of… I have no idea what—it looks like part of a destroyed piano—and then in the foreground, someone’s hideous bare feet—the kind of photo that epidemic-ized Instagram, because—you’re holding your stupid phone camera—what’s the first thing you see in front of you? Your hideous feet, that’s what. I saw a picture of them from back around time—not ogres, by any means—so you have to wonder about the choice of the album cover! Still, I bought it—and it’s a fine LP. Jackie Cain and Roy Kral sing (and don’t hold back, are not shy). Roy plays piano, and there’s a hot band: Shelly Manne, Barney Kessel, and Red Mitchell.

One number one (number one hit in the alt-universe where things are ranked by how interesting they are) hit after another, believe it or else! And the fine song selection is listed on back, including a few I know (via Sinatra, as usual) and some I don’t know. Some intriguing song titles like: “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most,” “Bill’s Bit” (drill? Or is Bill a horse?), “Tiny Told Me.” And my favorite, an amazing number called: “You Smell So Good.” (I thought it might be Millsap & Spooner [Kiss Me, Stupid (1964)] but no, it’s Tommy Wolf.) Liner notes are by Alec Wilder—dude simply goes overboard with enthusiasm—I wonder if he’s still with us, and if I could afford him to do my liner notes? Oh, missed him by 45 years. Anyway, Jackie & Roy—they kept cranking out the albums up to the end of the century, through rock’n’roll, punk, disco, hip-hop, cassette tapes, 8-Tracks, the death of vinyl, CDs, the rebirth of vinyl. I don’t know… maybe they succumbed to all of it. I do have a later record of theirs (haven’t written about it yet) called “Changes”—uh, oh, and by the song titles, they appear to have been afflicted—like so many recording artists of the Sixties—with Lennon-McCartney-itis. Hopefully, maybe, they create something unique with those proverbial chestnuts!

4.11.25

George Shearing Quintet “I Hear Music”

This is a fantastic Shearing Quintet record that you might be able to pick up for nothing (he released so many records, and many of them, seemingly are not that collectable—as is a lot of jazz—lucky for me). It’s on MGM, and I believe it’s a 1955 12-inch version of the original 1952 10-inch—but with a few additional songs. It has a kind of low-rent, modern art cover—it resembles one of those “Percussion in Hi-Fi” records. But it’s great from beginning to end—a dozen songs, all good, including the four Shearing compositions. It sounds to me like there’s more space on a lot of the songs than in some of the later stuff (I mean later, as in the Sixties). But that might just be particular to these recordings. Or perhaps it’s just blue-sky day, today, or an ice-cream parlor in Hell. There’s a bit of very general, uncredited, liner notes about the “Shearing Sound,” and then notes on each song, including composition and song origin, and individual musicians—not uniform on the whole record—so I’m not listing them all here. There’s fine playing by everyone, all in attendance—but also some of my favorite Shearing piano solos from any Shearing record. Yes, I’ve gone on and on—in the past—about how George Shearing is the most memorable music of my entire childhood—what I heard from the crib (or before) until moving out—but I’m keeping this review short (it’s the new way!). Every single song here is a standout, so I’m not listing them all, or any of them. All twelve of them, fine. Also, I have more Shearing records, currently, than any other artist, so there will be more LP reviews, soon. But this really may be my favorite one, so far.

4.4.25

The Gaylords “Chow Mein” / “Poppa Poppadopolis (The Happy Locksmith Man)”

Another 45 by The Gaylords—I previously claimed that I had four of their records—but I only have three—but still, that doesn’t explain how I got them. Though, I’d pick up any record with “coffee” or some type of food in the title, and chow mein is no exception. (I am keeping an eye out for their 1958 LP, “Let’s Have a Pizza Party.”) They were a vocal group from Detroit—this one is from 1955. The first record I listened to (see review from 2/20/23) was quite romantic—this one is not, really, unless your idea of romance is making out in a Chinese restaurant… so, on second thought, maybe it is. It could be considered a “novelty song”—though, what would be a novelty, for Westerners, would be to record a Chinese themed song without the stylistic stereotypical parody of Chinese music. Besides that, the song is awesome on several counts, some of them lyrically. “No more chow mein yaka mein beansprout/ no more lychee nut wonton soup…” They get right to it. The singer expresses a sincere sadness at the closure of his local chop suey joint. Another great line: “My love and I remember/ how we spent our flaming youth/ eating egg foo young and kissing/ in the red and yellow booth.”

The B-side, “Poppa Poppadopolis (The Happy Locksmith Man)”—which is the longest title by The Gaylords (or anybody) is the saga of a locksmith, in “Athens,” told by their “grandma”—who turned out to be the very person who stole the heart of grandpa—who turns out to be the locksmith. Then they had kids, who presumably had kids, who are now singing this historical account, including the line: “Now the story is complete.” (I always love that.) The song employs jangling sleighbells as additional percussion, but we’re meant to believe they’re jingling keys—well, maybe they are keys—I wasn’t there—this was 1955! One more note on The Gaylords—that I noticed on the Wikipedia page—a little aside that explains that the group’s name was decided upon “after a chance encounter with Marcus Wren.” No further explanation, no footnotes. After five unsatisfying google-minutes, I decided to engage the ol’ memory—that name rings a bell. I believe he’s a character in the Star Wars universe—the one played by Brad Dourif—in the episode directed by the Titmouse Brothers—grandsons of the Insidious Locksmith of Hoovercam.

3.28.25

Buddy Cole “Buddy Cole Plays Cole Porter”

Make no mistake—the subtitle of this album is: “At the Bösendorfer Piano”—but a little more on that later. “Buddy Cole Plays Cole Porter is a clever title—with that format, you could come up with an entire series of records (and maybe there is one, a series, that I don’t know about) like, say, “James Taylor Plays Taylor Swift”—is the first one that comes to mind. I’ll stop there and save further possibilities for a future “game night.” Pianist Buddy Cole, along with an orchestra conducted by Pete King, interpreting a dozen Cole Porter classics, in classic style. I’m not going to name the songs, except to say, I know nine of them in my sleep, mostly from Sinatra versions, and the other three I recognize, but wouldn’t be able to name in a trivia contest. Half of them have the world “love” in the title. I’m sure you know the songs—each of them will outlive these artists, the record, us, listening, and the technology. Well, you could say Cole Porter lives on—with these songs. Buddy Cole will live on with this record, as well—and there’s a great album cover. Two guys are sitting at a rickety table and chairs, playing chess, in the middle of a city street! Enormous 1950s cars whiz by on either side of them. It looks like they’re moments away from getting run over by a taxicab. For all I know, the two men could be Porter and Cole—in fact, this could have been the end. I looked up their bios, and sure enough, they died in the same year—1964, only about three weeks apart. This record, however, came out in 1958, so that would have meant they both spent six years in the hospital with ultimately fatal, photoshoot injuries. Not real likely.

Seemingly the impetus of this eminently listenable record is the Bösendorfer piano that Buddy Cole played on the recording—apparently quite a piano. I admit, I was not familiar with this particular instrument—but I am now! The extensive, uncredited, back-cover liner notes spend a couple, brief paragraphs discussing the two men, but the rest of the glowing coverage is for the piano! I mean, I am familiar with pianos—there was one in my home, growing up, and then one in the home of my piano teacher, Mrs. Patterson. It’s possible that hers was a Bösendorfer—I have no recollection of it—but it’s not likely. I guess they are fine pianos, made in “distant Vienna” (as opposed to Vienna, Illinois), and few are (or used to be) made, so they were somewhat rare on this side of the pond. Also, very expensive. But according to these Bösendorfer-heavy liner notes—they make all the difference. Perhaps if my parents had a Bösendorfer, instead of the nice piano we had, I might have become the next Buddy Cole. Probably not, but I’d have had no excuses, then, to be a piano-lesson-dropout. They’re not cheap—I looked online—the first one I see is $190,000 (with free shipping) (really? Free shipping?)—and here’s one on eBay for $395,000! The funny thing is, the liner notes just go on and on and on about this Bösendorfer, as if this was a Bösendorfer advertisement. Maybe it is. Does or did Warner Brothers own Bösendorfer? But also odd, on the back cover, there are a few “suggestions” for other records by other artists—none of them Buddy Cole—and a few of them are on other labels! What’s with that? Maybe… all those records also feature the Bösendorfer? I’ll have to look into that. This mystery lands firmly in the category of “still ongoing and open.”

3.21.25

Frank Sinatra “Look to Your Heart”

This 12 song Capitol release from 1959 is considered a “compilation” I guess—songs from previous records—earlier in the decade (Fifties)—but to me it sounds like it could have been recorded in one session, on a Wednesday, say, in March (a day much like today, but before I was born—you know, 60 to 70 years ago). I suppose it’s all Nelson Riddle orchestra. And the picture on the cover could have been taken from this (imaginary) session—Sinatra, suit and loosened collar, white tie, hat with a band that resembles a coral snake. But no, I guess—someone put these songs together from the archives, and found this really nice photo from the archives, with his hand over his heart—not unlike yours—the one he's telling you to look to. I’d like to think he approved the song selection, the production, the cover photo, and the goofy graphics on back—and then they all went out to eat somewhere, steaks and martinis, with the crowds kept away, more or less. But what do I know about Sinatra? I’ve been reading some musician bios lately—I like them—what’s the best Sinatra bio? Or is it that documentary that came out a few years back—where can I find that, now? People have all different measures of success, and I’m sure Sinatra’s varies from “the usual” to… unique. For me, for instance, not having to write my own synopses, monitor love on a smartphone, or get into a flying machine are all fantasies I’d consider: “you’ve got it made.” What could be better? Well, songs at my fingertips. That would be, even, better. By the way, my favorite songs here are: “Anytime-Anywhere,” “When I Stop Loving You,” “If I Had Three Wishes,” “Look to Your Heart,” “You, My Love,” and “Same Old Saturday Night.” Though, all twelve are fine—and fit together like a deli sandwich. There’s a uniform excellence, indeed, no clunkers, nothing that makes you feel the least bit like you’d rather be on another planet—even if that’s the way you feel, in general, a lot of time.

3.14.25

Mercy “Love (Can Make You Happy)” / “Fire Ball”

Oh, I know this song. When I saw the 45 on a heap of neglected freebies, I picked it up as a potential mystery—I’d never seen the “Sundi” label. But as soon as I heard it, it came right back, courtesy some challenged memory cells. Where would I have heard this? On the radio, I suppose, 1969, on the AM radio, WLEC at breakfast and CKLW on my portable transistor. I imagine some airtime. There are any number of old songs, from the beginning of time until the present, that bore me, don’t do anything for me, annoy me, nauseate me—but this isn’t one. I love this song! It starts out slow, with guitar and piano, and then the singers, “Wake up in the morning…” A beautiful, sunny, summer morning with nothing on the horizon except a day of doing only what you feel like. Maybe reading a book for entertainment. Subtle, actual drums, and then a great chorus, “Love can make you happy…” And the song stays right there, doesn’t try to go off to another planet or anything. It’s merely saying that “love can make you happy.” Not a tremendously original statement, and it’s followed by the big “IF”—if you find that person. But it doesn’t dwell on that, and it fades out.

“Wake up in the morning” is a great way to start a song, by the way. I’m going to get out a piece of paper right now and write that down, as the potential beginning to a potential song that I might potentially write. The B-side, an instrumental called “Fire Ball” (two words, for no good reason), starts with a fuzzy guitar, medium fast tempo, and sounds like a surf song—or, if there’s no surf anywhere handy, it still may have been stolen from some surf song, or borrowed, I mean. If it’s not surf, it’s most certainly about a hot-rod, or a fast car of some kind. Some nice guitar in there. It doesn’t sound remotely like the same band as the other side—nothing connecting the two at all—but there’s no rule that says every song by a band has to sound enough like every other song by that band so that any moron could identify it.

And then, I noticed, via the internet, that this song (“Love”) was in a movie in 1968 called Fireball Jungle (fantastic movie poster), so now it’s all making sense. I look for it—it’s on YouTube, and it’s about car racing and crime, and there’s a scumbag named “Cateye.” Could be a mislaid classic. And the band, Mercy, are in a scene, singing their hit song in a diner—the whole song—right about at the 15-minute mark (the standard place where you normally throw in some nudity for exploitation purposes). If you’re a teenager at the movie, and a couple, this will get you in the mood for a little handholding, making out, even, and you can maybe even then ignore the next hour of tough-guy posturing, blustery threats, brutal violence, and car accidents.

3.7.25

Joni Mitchell “Ladies of the Canyon”

I somehow managed to escape from adolescence with very few Joni Mitchell records (or, well, I had a few and lost them) so maybe I’ll keep an eye out for the ones that don’t cost one million dollars. I wasn’t a big fan as a young kid—there was something too alien about her, too confusing for me—or maybe too woman-oriented, and I couldn’t relate. I sure couldn’t figure out what she was playing on guitar, for the most part. But now that I’m nearly an adult, I’m increasingly up for challenges. This 1970 record has the two songs from that “Superstars of the Seventies” collection (“Big Yellow Taxi” and “Woodstock”) which were, for a couple of years, my sense of Joni Mitchell. I like this album cover a lot, credited to “Joni”—so guess it’s a self-portrait, a simple line drawing—looking half-done, but it couldn’t be anyone but her. Then a very small section (about the size and shape of a slice of pizza) is filled in with simple but vibrant watercolors. Not much there, but it feels entirely specific, like you could find the place (or could have in 1970) from the very minimal clues—you get the feeling of the hills of Los Angeles, some modest houses (affordable at the time?) maybe hippies and artists there. There’s a blue VW bug parked in a garage—it could be the most minimal representation of the “Bug,” ever.

Six songs per side, and the cover opens up and there are lyrics there, either handwritten incredibly small by Joni Mitchell—or else it’s a font—called “Induced Migraine.” You can pretty much understand the words anyway, but I’m thinking this is a record I want to pay close attention to the words, and so that’s what I’m doing. I’ll have to listen through a few times because there are some evocative ones—references to places, geography—which reminds me of how the most significant seeming feature of my dreams is the geography. I always talk about this when I talk about dreams. So that makes me think that maybe these songs are somewhat dreamlike… and they are. Like most songs, a lot about relationships, family, friends, and I guess, are mostly, are to some degree, romantic. Of course, “Big Yellow Taxi” is one of the more happy-go-lucky-sounding angry environmentalist songs you’ll ever hear. It’s a good approach. “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot”—you can’t say it much better than that. That observation is never dated, and never will be until humans are cured of that insanity (parking lots) which isn’t likely to happen anytime sooner than the Earth is cured of that insanity (people). “Woodstock” always creeped me out a little, in that its words are celebratory, but it sounds (acid) trippy and a bit scary—not celebratory as much as a lament for the end of human life on Earth. Could this song’s approach be a conscious effort to represent both the good and bad acid, simultaneously? Or else, maybe, the “yin and yang” of acid—is that a thing? I might be completely off base here, of course, since I’m not an acid guy. I’m not even a baseball guy.

The record starts off with “Morning Morgantown,” which has a catchiness of such devious capacity that they named an earworm after it (Morning Morgantown Earworm). It gets in there and doesn’t let up. Does anyone else wake up in the middle of the night to pee—and then after you pee and you’re going back to bed (and hopefully sleep) you realize there is a song going over and over in your head? It happens to me all the time—not necessarily earworm songs, either—but maybe not everyone is susceptible to this kind of thing. Anyway, the only way to alleviate the Morgantown is listen to the lyrics and try to figure out what it’s about. (West Virginia, or a state of mind? Or both?) I doubt if I can find anywhere, like on the internet, people discussing Joni Mitchell lyrics. (That’s one of my jokes, the kind people don’t seem to get, like when I said I had “around 150” photos on my phone!) “For Free” is a particularly lovely one, and I relate like it’s yesterday (with the clarinetist, not the singer—but the singer, too—that’s a magic trick). Lana Del Rey recorded this, on one of her albums—with two other singers, trading verses, which is an inspired approach. It seems like most of the songs are portrait songs, her poetic observations of people, with warmth, and with a certain knowing and unknowable depth. This one, “The Arrangement” is a copious lament to a “you”—that I might find it worthwhile to ask around about. “Rainy Night House” is equally as mysterious—and disturbing— but in a way I can’t exactly nail down.

I’m reading half-a-dozen books about musicians, currently—I guess I like books about musicians—but a little here and a little there (i.e., I read slowly). Is there good writing, somewhere, about Joni Mitchell—a book, or many books? Obviously, there is, but how can one choose? Can I trust the inter-nest to tell me? Perhaps that will be my next project, as another Farraginous February wraps in glorious song and silence. It’ll be spring all too soon. Yesterday I walked along the river at noon, alone (people still avoiding that treacherous boardwalk?) and it struck me as particularly beautiful, the place where the upriver ice ended and then it was just water, at the confluence. (Not the sex-toy company, but the place where the rivers meet.) There was an alone duck swimming, or floating—but moving fast. Then I saw an alone gull, sitting on the very edge of the ice, at the edge of the water. Just one. Anytime I see a totally solitary bird I wonder what’s up. Should I worry? Probably not. Probably just out there listening to music, making tentative plans.

2.28.25

Renaissance “Novella”

I liked a solo Annie Haslam record (called “Annie in Wonderland”—from 1977, same year as this one) that I stumbled upon, so much, without knowing anything about her, that I looked for more, and saw she was in the band, Renaissance, which I had never heard of when I was a 17-year-old punk rocker who more or less despised stuff like this by 1977. It’s dramatic, and catchy enough, but in every way overblown—the first song is 14 minutes long, with heavenly choirs and tolling bells. On further listening, the overall sound is growing on me, like mushrooms—and I imagine a certain edible fungus could be the magic key, here. Also, drinking mead from an enormous wooden cup hewn from an oaken log. Or whatever you make wooden cups from—be careful not to poison yourself. Same with the fungi! And I have to note, I’m doing none of those things, actually—it’s got to be all about the music, for me. The acid inspired cover opens up, and the entire inside is taken up by lyrics (in a font called “Induced Migraine”) that looks like they’re etched on a mausoleum wall. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I’m not going to read along—I’ve got things to do and places to be… on Earth. Anyway, somehow I’ve ended up with five of their records from the Seventies, so maybe at some point I’ll take a “deep dive” and experience a Renaissance renaissance, just by sheer numbers. What I’m really looking forward to, however, is when the magic number comes up on that Annie Haslam LP—but that’s all a matter of chance. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’m not going to return to my early prog rock days and find a way to love this one—but according to the internist, the band is still a band—so dare I hope for an appearance at this year’s Renaissance Faire? Oh, well, according to their warm and informational website, their “farewell” tour was in 2024. But, then, you never know—fans are still out there, and musicians need to eat.

2.27.25

Klaatu “Sir Army Suit”

If every time a band that was heavily influenced by the Beatles released a record to rumors that they were the Beatles, you’d have a scandal once a week. So, I’m not sure how that happened back in 1976, when that first Klaatu record came out. Someone in the marketing department had an inspiration? —I suppose. I was wondering if I wrote anything about their first record (which I used to have)—and I did, back in 2007! On this, their third LP, from 1978, they prove that they can sound like all kinds of bands… Blue Oyster Cult, Electric Light Orchestra, Kansas… though hopefully no Kkaatu-ian wears a tux with a straw hat or goes on stage in bare feet… or sings backwards. Ultimately, it’s pop, with a Capital p. There’s a lyric sheet, and the last song is printed backwards! But when I try to read it in a mirror, it’s still backwards—it all (doesn’t) make sense when you hear the song! Part of the reason those early rumors came about was because they didn’t include their pictures anywhere, but on this one there are more clues. The front cover drawing shows a long line of people walking over a bleak (Canadian?) landscape toward a rising moon, and on the back cover (drawing) we see several of them approaching—who are they? Fortunately, we now have “AI” to help us solve these kinds of mysteries! So, according to “my phone,” it’s: Ed Sullivan, Maurice De Vlaminck, Norman Mailer, Ian Anderson, “Woman with Basket,” Klaus Kinski, Peter Pan, and Wendy!

2.26.25

Willie Nelson “To Lefty from Willie”

Willie Nelson’s tribute to Lefty Frizzell, recorded the year he died, and released a couple of years later in 1977. They were close to the same age, actually, but LF died way too young. Hopefully WN will live forever. Seeing how I love Willie Nelson, and I love Lefty Frizzell, this record should be a home run, but unfortunately, for me, it’s underwhelming, a base on balls, so to speak. I can’t really put my finger on why, which bugs me a little (not as much as it might bug a fan of this record, reading this!). I guess this is when I’m glad I’m not a music critic, because I just can’t figure it out. Those folks (music critics) aren’t paid enough—wait, they’re not paid at all, anymore. Anyway, it doesn’t help that the album cover looks like a wedding invitation—the kind I dread seeing arrive in the mail. Anyway, I do like this record, I’m just sad to say I can’t “marry it.” It does remind me that I have a Lefty Frizzell cassette somewhere, which I was really into at one point, but I’m not set up to listen to cassettes at this time, and that makes me a little sad, too. I only have a few Willie Nelson records, but I’ve always admired him in every way and think his voice is worth a giant monument carved out of a mountain or something. I have to admit that part of my less than excitement is that I’m not in love with the recording, here, as top-rate, of course, as the players are. I hate to keep harping on my dislike of harmonica, but there you go—even though it’s played, here, by harmonica legend Mickey Raphael—for me it’s like all dessert and not enough main course. It’s like my intolerance of wheat gluten—if you had, say, Joël Robuchon prepare me a meal, ten percent of which was wheat flour, I’m still going to be driving the big white bus.

2.25.25

The Four Aces Featuring Al Alberts “Tell Me Why” / “A Garden in the Rain”

Evocative band name, seeing how being dealt four aces in a hand of five-card poker is virtually a mathematical impossibility—without cheating, that is. Why do I say stuff like that? Just because, I guess, the thought of someone reading it and blowing their top amuses me. No, the internet says the odds are 1 in 54,145—not bad odds, actually—the lottery is much worse—infinitely worse! And people play the lottery every day. Still, it’s an excellent—though somewhat obvious—band name. At one point, in the early days of rock’n’roll, before there was the internet, there were 54,145 bands with that name—before this Four Aces sold millions of records, to become the “ace” Four Aces. This 45 looks like it rode into my collection stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe, but it still plays great (if scratchy) and it sounds exactly like you might think 1951 would sound (say, imagined in a movie). “Tell Me Why” is catchy and romantic, vocals in the forefront, of course. I particularly like the organ, way in the back, sounding like it’s floating in randomly from the place next door. Same goes for the standard, “A Garden in the Rain”—it’s a catchy one. A lot of people recorded that song—it’s a great song. Sinatra’s version comes to mind, plus, who else? Diana Krall’s is my favorite. Nothing against the Aces—it’s just that I was there with her. Not literally, of course—but that’s how she makes you feel. I have no Diana Krall vinyl, so I mention her any chance I get.

2.22.25

Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five “Go Blow Your Horn”

I used to be, more often, anyway, in a Louis Jordan mood—maybe because his songs have a novelty element—up-tempo, energetic, accessible, humorous—and I went through a Louis Jordan phase when I had some really good stuff on a cassette (don’t remember where from, originally). This record seems to be a good representation of his style—it’s from 1957—he had a long recording career through several evolving eras of popular music—tons of singles—played sax and sang—played with lots of big stars and legendary musicians. This record, with his Tympany Five (intriguing name)—a loose group of usually more than five—horns, more horns, piano, bass, drums, and early rock’n’roll guitar. The songs here all sound great—fast, short, and highly entertaining—Jordan singing on all but three (honking, high-energy, sax instrumentals) of the twelve songs. No songwriting credits, but there’s no shortage of great lyrics, throughout, especially on songs like “Fat Back and Corn Likker”—it’s questionable, with that spelling, that it’s not even more sinful—not that that’s the question here. It’s so exuberant, it got me hungry for fatback—and pretty thirsty as well—and ready to “Put Some Money in the Pot” (beer run song—well, “juice run”—not sure if that’s “juice o’ the vine”—or could be anything with alcohol). In a song about catching his woman with another man, the character goes off so vehemently and for so long, it’s like he exhausts himself out of anger and just becomes ridiculous. Same strategy in “Gal, You Need a Whippin’”—which starts out accusing his gal of doing nothing all day but drinking whiskey and eating barbeque (see above), but by the end of the song, the “whippin’” now means sexual intercourse! In “Whiskey Do Your Stuff”—well, self-explanatory—you get the idea. “Some folks drink for pleasure, some drink ’cause it’s wet”—great line! “It’s Hard to Be Good” is a bluesy ballad—quietest and prettiest song here, and very nice.

I don’t remember if I’ve encountered the “Score” label previously—very old-fashioned, silver printing on a dark label that’s somewhere between brown and maroon. There’s an elongated oval (that says “Full Range Fidelity”) that looks like either a stylized quarter-note or a golf putter. The vinyl is so heavy it almost feels like an old 78—and it sounds great—this record is older than me, and scratchy, been played a lot—but just sounds so good—so you get that time-travel feeling. It’s from Los Angeles—the address on bottom—5352 West Pico Blvd.—what’s there now? Well, a tax service—but in the “street view,” the building has an exceptionally nice op-art mural covering the entire building, incredible—if I was in LA, I’d head over there and take some pictures. Maybe do my taxes. It says “Teach Peace” on front—yet there are some (stylized paintings of) men coming at us with machetes! Brief liner notes history of Louis Jordan, and a b&w photo of him on back. The front album cover is one of the better ones I’ve seen lately—more red than you’ll ever see on one place. Under the “go blow your horn” in white script, it says “jazz gems” which is kind of funny. You can barely make out the images in the red haze, but there’s two disembodied saxophones. And then, in the middle, toward the top, there’s a topless woman, dancing—I mean, you can just barely make her out—just a ghost image—but you can tell she’s wearing a sarong with a flowered pattern, and nothing on top. You can’t tell who she is, and she could be Black or Asian—it’s the kind of sexy image you’d see on a Hawaiian music or Exotica record. Anyway, it’s like the whole cover is obscured by this red fog, or I don’t know, viscous fluid—it even fills the bells of the horns. It’s a bold, eye-catching, but very weird cover.

2.21.25

Royale Orchestra “Hoagy Carmichael Songs”

While the Royale label is really cool-looking, this 45 is a disappointment. I’ve always been in awe of Hoagy Carmichael (the man they named a sandwich after), and I wonder if he ever had time to sit down. This disc didn’t, however, take up much of his time, unless it was moving numbers around in his bank account. This record is a total swindle! It’s passing itself off as a Hoagy Carmichael record, but it’s actually a Royale Orchestra record, performing songs of Hoagy Carmichael. Not that I spent top dollar on what I thought was a HC record—in fact, I suspect that a little man wearing a black sweatshirt and a toupee snuck into my apartment at night and placed this 7-inch EP with the rest of my 7-inch vinyl in my mom’s old sewing kit which has served as my record case since the early Eighties (I remember the cat using it was a scratching post). There are four classic HC songs, and two have vocals, performed by the uncredited members of the “Royale Orchestra”—a sleepy version of “Lazy Bones” and an inspired “Rockin’ Chair” (“Fetch me that gin, son…”) Tired instrumental “Georgia on My Mind.” One of my favorite songs of all time is “Stardust”—but what we get here is “Star Dust”—a lifeless, bad-movie version that standard that even popcorn won’t help. Indeed, Royale with cheese.

2.18.25

Joy of Cooking “Joy of Cooking”

I first heard of Joy of Cooking when I wrote about their second album a few years back. I had mentioned that the lyric sheet for this (their first) album was accidently in that one—but I didn’t have this record yet—which is very similar to their second (same year, I believe)—really good record! End of review! Now some notes: Same band, pretty much, and Toni Brown and Terry Garthwaite are the songwriters, and they both sing, play guitar and keyboards, kalimba, clarinet—two women with some serious musical chemistry going on. I also recently came across a Toni Brown solo record, and a Toni & Terry record called “Cross-Country”—recorded in Nashville—that’s very good (may the magic review chooser fall on it soon)! No one’s asking me to choose between these records, but I’d be torn. Little internet tells me that Joy of Cooking released a third album in ’72 (which I’ve yet to see, but now I’ll look for), and a fourth one that was never released.

I mentioned that the first record had a weird, uncompelling cover, but a great band picture on back. Same with this one! The cover looks like a photo taken with a primitive process—like a Campbell’s soup can pinhole camera using a fermented fungus emulsion—it shows maybe a stark landscape with a setting or rising sun—it’s nearly abstract—and there’s a barely visible, bizarre, graphic of some hippies dancing (reprinted, much larger, 14 times on the lyric sheet—it means something to someone!)—also, some lyrics—what are they to? I have to listen carefully—they’re some of the lyrics to the first song on the second side. I guess it’s kind of a relief that they have some connection to the record! Also, I guess, they join an exclusive club of bands who have song lyrics printed on the front album cover. It’s a very odd choice, especially since they could have just used the band picture that’s on back—which is excellent—they all look great—I mean, they’re an attractive group. There’s David Garthwaite (I believe Terry’s brother), and the two percussionists, Fritz Kasten and Ron Wilson who both have some serious hair and moustaches. Maybe their musical seriousness kept them from wanting to use this kind of surface beauty to sell records—so good for them.

There’s no song on this record that stands out like that absolutely killer one on their second record. (“Sometimes Like a River (Loving You)”—so you don’t have to go look up my last review!) But they’re all good—they all “cook” (can I say that?)—a lot of groove, a lot grooves, grooviness, a lot of percussion, spare but full production. Good lyrics, too, some serious feminist messages, so you might want to use that lyric sheet (I have two, if anyone needs one). One of my favorites is “Red Wine at Noon”—it’s maybe the record’s most melancholy, and a very heartfelt song. “Now I’ve got white wine in the morning sun/Red wine at noon.” That definitely evokes something—even out of context—but within the song, it breaks your heart. My next favorite song, I suppose, is one called “Too Late, But Not Forgotten”—it’s catchy, but also complex. I noticed that those two songs are the two that Toni Brown sings on—though, like I said, I like everything. But I wonder if she (Toni) is the more melancholy side, and Terry is the more up-tempo, rockin’ out side. Of course, that’s oversimplifying, because they both sing on most of the songs, everything’s melded, integrated—including the guys—Joy of Cooking is an apt band name. I’ll definitely look for that record I don’t have—I’m curious. I’ll also look for the one that’s never been released—but don’t expect I’ll have much luck, there.

2.14.25

The Amboy Dukes “Journey to the Center of the Mind” / “Mississippi Murderer”

The random ticker finally fell here—don’t remember where this record came from—though there is a bullet hole in it. No, not the hole in the center, but a smaller one, through the label. Could be an arrow hole? Anyway, I’m sure I’d buy anything called “Journey to the Center of the Mind”—who wouldn’t? The song is so pointedly “psychedelic” in style and lyrics (“come along if you dare” and “you might not come back”) that the first thing that came to mind is Spinal Tap’s flower children song—and also, English/German band Nektar’s album, Journey to the Centre of the Eye. (As well as Ray Speen’s unreleased psychedelic homage, “Journey to the Center of Mind’s Eye Delicatessen.”) The nice thing is, I was forced to solve a mystery, here—not that it was something that I had stayed up nights pondering. I knew that The Amboy Dukes was Ted Nugent’s early band, but I always, correctly, associated him with Detroit area Michigan—while I incorrectly associated The Amboy Dukes with Perth Amboy, New Jersey—who wouldn’t? In the meantime, someone invented the internet, so in these last few days before we have to pay through the nose for info, I looked up the band, and what-do-you-know? They were named after a novel—The Amboy Dukes (1947), by Irving Shulman, a NYC writer. The B-side, a hard blues rock train song (“keep on runnin’ down the track”) called “Mississippi Murderer” strikes me as an exercise in using words that you could get lost in an endless loop while spelling them. A more extreme version could be “Mississippi Banana Murderer.” Pretty good record!

2.11.25

Skeeter Davis & NRBQ “She Sings, They Play”

I’m pretty sure that when I heard this 1985 record in the mid-to-late-Eighties it was the first time I’d heard either Skeeter Davis or NRBQ. I may not be remembering this correctly, but I think it was when I lived in Kent, Ohio with several roommates, and it belonged to one of them, but I’m not saying for sure because I might be wrong. I recorded it on a cassette and then listened to it for years—one of my favorite records. A band I was in, much, much later, even performed one of the songs (“Temporarily Out of Order”—a great song). For some reason, I didn’t seek out all the NRBQ records (though I have a few on cassette tapes) even though I’ve always liked them, been intrigued by them, and in awe of them. Slowly, over time, I became more and more a fan of Skeeter Davis—at some point finding some of her old records for decent prices, and I continue to keep an eye out for them—there’s a lot! And over time my love for Skeeter Davis has continued, and increased with each record of hers I hear, and for some time, and still, I’ve called her my favorite singer. I don’t exactly know what it is—her voice, her style, her song selection—but more than any other singer, for me anyway, I feel like I can get a sense of what she’s thinking, and feeling, through her voice, and can feel a closeness to the person she is, like there’s a direct connection to her heart. I still haven’t read her autobiography.

I could have found a copy of this album online, much earlier, but I don’t generally like to buy records online—I’d much rather wait until I find them. And then, I never pay much for records. But when I became aware, somehow, that it was being reissued (by Omnivore), I impulsively ordered a copy, and I’m happy to have it now. Besides the 12 songs on the original, they’ve included a couple more from the session, I guess, one on the end of each side, a couple of up-tempo rock’n’roll numbers. There’s also an inner sleeve with some very cool photos from the studio, and some very good, extensive liner notes by John DeAngelis, which kind of outlines how this project came about. It’s quite a story—starting with Terry Adams (at the age of four!) being a fan of the Davis Sisters (Skeeter’s very young career, as part of a duo). Then later, he was a fan of solo Skeeter Davis—not even connecting them, at first. Eventually, he met her, and they started a correspondence—and eventually a scheme to record Skeeter with NRBQ, and this record. If they had taken a conservative approach and merely recorded a few well-known covers, it would have been great, due to the unique styles of each party involved—but it went much further—it sounds like to me—a full-on creative collaboration—you know, greater than the sum of the parts. The richness of the results, as comes alive in my listening room, makes me think of something like The Basement Tapes—and the inherent lightness confirms that—the feeling and effortless sense of people having the most fun they’ve ever had in a studio (or maybe anywhere). I’m not going to go song by song—they’re all great—some covers, some by Skeeter Davis, some by Terry Adams, and Joey Spampinato—there are so many styles and approaches, duets, guest musicians. It could be another band’s (or genre’s) greatest hits. It’s one of my favorite records—always was and always will be.

2.7.25

The Four Preps “Big Man” / “Stop, Baby”

The first thing that occurred to me was that this is a band made up of restaurant workers—all prep cooks—but it would be a big restaurant—or across several restaurants—like the Busboys, or the Soda Jerks. No, wait, that’s the Circle Jerks. Or it could be the Sous-chefs. But unlikely. So, then I thought, oh, hospital workers, prep nurses. Or the four things you do to prepare for something, like clean the area, anesthetize… etc. but no, that’s dumb. Then it occurred to me, Oh, like preppies! But did they have them back then? This 45 is from, like 1958. Did they even have Izod shirts back then? Then I thought I misread the label, and it’s actually that band, The Four Perps—because why do I even have this single? If someone sneaks in your house and leaves records in your collection—that can’t be considered a crime, right? But could you call it gaslighting, right, and isn’t that kind of a crime? But no, it’s The Four Preps—and it’s a perfectly apt name for this kind of late-Fifties pop music who sound exactly like you’d think a group called “The Four Preps” would sound—that is, if you’re not an idiot, and thinking it might be a group made up of restaurant workers.

2.4.25

Tin Huey “Contents Dislodged During Shipment”

No one ever called this band “quirky” right? While listening to this 1979 record for the first time in years (my [bought-everything-called-new wave-at the time] copy was lost in the big purge and I just recently found a clean one), an image came to me of the six band members in the Hollywood recording studio, each of them sporting a conservative gold wedding band, while their six wives—who all made the trek out from Akron—shop on Melrose for the hottest 1979 swimwear before hitting the hotel pool where they lovingly trade anecdotes about their eccentric spouses. I’m likely dead wrong about the “wholesomeness”—certainly one of these guys was dirty, depraved, and spelled Trouble. They’re from Ohio, after all. But the music comes across as accomplished and intelligent, first of all—it’s hard for excellent musicians not to show off a little, I guess—and they play this up on the back cover photo, drinking tea. (Though, what are those little, visiting creatures?) But is the excessive jauntiness the result of wholesome energy and too much rehearsal, or mini-mountains of studio coke? Or are they all band (as in marching band) geeks who read music and talk theory and have no problem with weird time signatures and know their way around all the clefs… treble, bass, etc.?

It’s easy to make fun of something that might have been called “Art Rock,” at the time, and was goofy, while also taking itself seriously—but this record sounds better than ever to me, now. Excellent songs, good lyrics, intricate, complex structures, and hot musicianship—the most striking thing being the horns, played by Ralph Carney, who sadly passed away in 2017. He’d, of course, gone on to have a solo career and play with tons of people, including Tom Waits. You hear this record, and you can just imagine, you can see why, anyone hearing it saying: who’s playing the horns? How can I get ahold of him? Hire him… find me that guy! The only song I don’t like is “I’m a Believer,” the only cover on the record. Not a terrible song for a number one hit—I love the Monkees’ version. But this one, no—it doesn’t really sound like the rest of the record, anyway, and you get the sense that it’s on here to grease one of the Warner Brothers—either Stan or Reg—the one that made you kiss his feet and call him “Sire.” I’m sure I’m totally wrong, but it sounds like they were “encouraged” to record it—and purposely made a mockery of it. The rest of the record I like a lot (last song on each side are my favorites), and now that I have a copy again, I’ve got to remind myself to put it on once in a while—it brings back 1979 like it was yesterday—nothing else really sounds like this.

2.1.25